Feel the Pain

The best quote I heard last week, “this Vodou stuff isn’t for pussies.” Thanks Mambo, I needed that. My solace, the song that’s gotten me through this period is Dinosaur Jr’s Feel The Pain. (Best video ever.)

Dinosaur Jr.–Feel the Pain

On New Year’s Eve I had dinner with friends, and then we went to Heart of the Beast for an amazing New Year’s celebration. Everyone was having a great time, but something in me was off – amiss. I just couldn’t get into the festive mood. A feeling was there, something was going to happen and it wasn’t going to be good. A few days later the trouble began.

The River Is In Me

Standing on the banks of the Mississippi River on the New Orleans shoreline, I stick my hand into the water to greet her. She is the Mississippi, and I know her well. After all, she’s my lover.

The scent of her fills my nostrils. I take her into myself, filling my lungs. It’s not a fresh smell, but one of mildew, decay and memory. Her warm humid breath comforts me. She welcomes me to her, my oldest friend.

There is a picture my mother has of me, at the age of months, less than one year old. I’m reaching for the throttle of our family boat, the Mimi III, named after my aunt. It was third in a tradition of five spanning three generations of our family. Not even old enough to speak, she was a part of my life. I grew up on boats, on her water, on the shores of Dubuque, IA. My weekdays might hold school or summer play, but she consumed my weekends. I spent countless hours riding her, swimming in her, swallowing her and eventually skiing upon her. On countless weekend nights, she would gently rock me to sleep and gently crash upon the sides of my bed.

Shiduri-Doo

Shiduri when she first came to us.

She came to us starved, neglected and abused. One of the first things we did was change her name: your old life is over; you are loved.

From the moment Saum saw her on the Great Dane rescue site, Saum knew she was ours. She was in the Dakotas (can’t remember which one), then she was gone from the site. Her name was A. J.

We were looking for a larger dog after Asha (aka Asha boo or Asha the boo). Our other rescue dog, Barnabas (aka B-dog) was morning her loss, deeply depressed. He needed her; she needed us.

We met her in a northern St. Paul suburb at a foster family. It was the same dog A. J.: delisted and moved to the Twin Cities to try and find a home here. She had come to us: we found each other.

I Wear a Kara

The Kara is a steel bracelet worn by warriors. I’ve worn mine non-stop for over 11 years.

I am deeply saddened by the tragedy at the Sikh Gurdwara outside of Milwaukee. I am also very angry. I’m trying to reconcile the two. My wife became an honorary Sikh in the 80s, but that is her story to tell when she is ready.

Eleven years ago my marriage was on the rocks. I’m not going to go into the details of how I almost derailed it, but I made an important decision: it was a marriage worth fighting for. In changing my attitude and strengthening myself to not give up, I started a long journey to repair the damage I had done. This was the longer difficult path, the shorter easier path would have been to dissolve the marriage. It has taken years to turn around.

After my struggles with our marriage, my wife gave me a gift: a Kara. It is a steel bracelet worn by warriors and one of the five items all Sikhs of faith must bear. In fighting for my own marriage, in the struggle and fight against myself and my own issues, she felt I deserved it. I have worn it every day since. It has replaced my wedding band as a constant reminder of my dedication, struggles and strength I put forth in my marriage. It is a stronger symbol of love than any gold band could give; it is a stronger piece of metal, harder to break.

The End of the Chase

Right now I am entering couche. I am partaking in the end of one journey and the start of a new one. When I emerge on Sunday, I will be an Oungan Asogwe. The asson will come home.

There are many posts in this blog marking the points along the way. I hope some of you learned a little more about me . I started this blog with the intention of people getting to know who I am. I rechristened it when I started the process of becoming a Vodou priest, an Oungan. Along this path, I marked Sur Pwenn, the first stage of priesthood where I was on point, the beginning of that road. This one marks the entering of initiation to Asogwe.

When I emerge on Sunday, I will be a different man. I will also be the same man. Initiation changes you, but it doesn’t invalidate you. You are still you, just more.

I’ll have … a beer

My last grandparent died this past Saturday. It was my Grandma (Marie) McDermott, wife of Frances, the man who’s name I took when I initiated. They were dear to me.

I have many memories of her. They were the people that introduced me to coffee – anyone who knows me knows that it is a sacred drink to me. We used to ride the Forth Street Elevator in Dubuque at least once a week. It was a major thrill for me and only cost between a dime and a quarter when I was little. We had each Christmas Day at their house, in their basement – a beautiful cozy room with wood paneling, carpet and a huge dining table. Each Christmas filled with cousins, family and one of those silver tinsel Christmas trees with a rotating color wheel that would make it change colors from silver to red, blue, green – I hear that those vintage trees are worth a fortune these days.

Let’s take the free ANW pillow and go

I’ve been away for a while on a mission, a mission of taking care of the woman I love. Now I have a bunch of pent up things to say.

After all, we have a collection of those ANW pillows. I’m not even sure if they’re supposed to be free, but we have a collection of them. Maybe I should look into a recycling program.

I don’t mean to make light of the situation, after all this is serious business: surgery. I can’t imagine what it’s like. I had surgery, years ago: grade school, high school; broken bone stuff. The stuff that involves pins and wires. But I’ve never had surgery on my core, where all my muscles are, the stuff that supports my weight. I hope I never do.

Haunted by Ghosts

I’m not telling a ghost story, not that I don’t have them. It’s true that there were ghosts that frequented the rooms and halls of my college dormitory, but that will have to wait for another time.

There are times I feel haunted by ghosts. Not the kind that go clink in the night, the spirits of the departed, I have a working relationship with them. The ghosts I speak of are my own. They are not external entities, but internal to myself. This is about the ghosts that we carry around with us, the memories that haunt.

When I was growing up, times were different, our nation was different. I would hear jokes, often with racial epithets in them. As the world and I changed, I would grow more and more uncomfortable with what was being said, eventually telling people I didn’t want to hear the jokes. They were offensive. This is one of my ghosts.

Death Ahead, Detour Next Right

I should be dead right now.

This isn’t a suicide note. I’m rather happy to be alive at this moment.

In 2001, I was scheduled to provide an upgrade to a customer of mine in the World Trade Center during the week of September 11^th. Some piece of high tech security software that allows banks to wire funds internationally. The upgrade got cancelled the week before it was to take place. My wife was planning on going to New York with me. Since our plans had changed, we decided to take a mini-vacation. I was already planning on being out of town that week.

I’m not saying this puts me in a similar place of those who escaped, who descended and gotten out. I have no way of knowing how those people felt or feel today. I do however feel a kinship to those who for some odd reason or another had some circumstance that kept them away from work that day.